


I've Got You

by Dovahlock221



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is always full of surprises, but John was not expecting this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Hello readers! I really hope you like this. It took me awhile to write, but I feel really good about it. 
> 
> Warnings: Lots of language, intense violence, suicide attempt, angst and Johnlock if you squint.

It was a nice day on Baker Street, John and Sherlock were taking a nice day off from any case, much to Sherlock's dismay. 

It was quiet this morning at the flat. John woke to find Sherlock in his chair, as usual, with his hands against his chin and his eyes focused on something that John could not see. And so John had left a silent Sherlock at the flat to go get some necessary groceries from the store down the street.

He was on his way back when he got the phone call.

"John?" Sherlock questioned and John noticed his voice was shaking ever so slightly.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way back right now. Why- Did a client show?"

"No."

"Then why-"

"I- um..Need to tell you something," Sherlock stuttered. 

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

John stayed silent, waiting for Sherlock's explanation.

"Nevermind," Sherlock stated.

"Wha- What were you going to tell me?"

"I said nevermind, John. Don't pry, it doesn't suit you. See you later."

Sherlock hung up. Leaving John disgruntled. That was wierd. Subconciously, John started to pick up the pace. Sherlock was just being his emotionless self. Nothing to worry about.  
FInally, John arrived at the flat. Walking in, he shouted a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson and ran quickly up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John shouted, looking around the empty flat. His heart started to race and he ran to Sherlock's bedroom, shoving the door open.

"Sherlock!" John screamed. His vision immediately went blurry. It was as though he was walking into a nightmare. Sherlock, his best friend, was sprawled out on the bed, pale, eyes shut, body convulsing, fading. And next to him lay an orange, empty container and a bottle of water. John wanted to scream at the top of his lungs.

Everything after that happened within a split second.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John begged, running over to his friend and lifting him up in his arms. "No no no no no..You can't do this to me."

He pushed away Sherlock's hair from his sweaty forehead and leaned his own against it. "Wake up, Sherlock. Open your eyes for me. You can't do this!"

The bottle is empty. How many did he take? God. This isn't happening.

Pulling himself away from his thoughts, John sprung into action. He half-carried, half-dragged Sherlock to the grimy bathroom. Laying Sherlock against the tub he turned on the shower. Stepping into it he pulled Sherlock in front of him to lean Sherlock's back against his chest.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," John begged. Prying open Sherlock's mouth, he shoved his middle and ring finger as far as he could down Sherlock's throat. "Come on. Please don't do this."

John let out a huge sigh of relief when suddenly Sherlock lurched forward and gagged on John's fingers. John removed his fingers as Sherlock threw up the contents of his stomach. Most of it landed on John's leg, but he could care less in that moment.

"It's ok, Sherlock. I've got you."

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking up through the streams of water hitting his face to see a concerned and almost heartbreaking expression on John's face.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John stated with a small smile, and pulled Sherlock closer to him. "Don't ever do that me again."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Sherlock, you with me?" John asked, shutting off the shower and pulling Sherlock's head back to lay on his chest. He notices that Sherlock's eyes are dazed and his pupils are enlarged. He pushes Sherlock's damp bangs out of his eyes, "Sherlock?"

"Please, John," Sherlock begged, turning his head and sobbing into his shoulder. "Make it stop...please...I just want it to go away...I just want it all to stop...so tired, so tired of it all."

Tears filled up in John's eyes as he hugs his best friend, still stunned by what he just happened.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock," he whispered, and wished he could believe it. "It's going to be okay."

He continues to rock Sherlock back and forth and closes his eyes as he tries to figure out why Sherlock would want to kill himself.

"John..My stomach hurts.."

John sighs, "Hospital. Now, Sherlock."

For the first time, John sees terror forms in Sherlock's eyes, "No, John. Please, no hospital."

"Sherlock..They might need to pump your stomach."

"No, John. Please," Sherlock moans.

Sighing, John gives in. This is all fucked up. Sherlock. His best friend just tried to commit suicide. When did things get even more fucked up than they already were. How did John not notice that Sherlock had these intentions?

"Ok, Sherlock. But you need to throw up again. I want to make sure it's all out of your stomach," John states, knowing that a slight overdose can take a while to take effect even though he was almost sure all of it came out. He wasn't taking any chances.

With John's help, Sherlock slowly crawls out of the bathtub and positions himself in front of the toilet. The movement makes him dizzy and he grips the sides of the toilet to stay focused.

Sherlock looks up when he hears John stand up and sit on the edge of the bathtub.

"Uh John.."

John sends a questioning look towards Sherlock. "No way I'm leaving you alone, Sherlock."

"John..I'll be fine."

"No."

"I'll let you search me for sharp objects," Sherlock snorts.

"Not funny, Sherlock," John states, not ready to make light of this situation.

The small smile leaves Sherlock's face and is replaced with a frown.

"Fine. But I'll be right outside that door if you need me."

"Ok," Sherlock sighs, watching John stand up and walk towards the door. "Hey, John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

Thank you? Sherlock is thanking me for saving his life after he tried to take it away. This is wrong. All kinds of wrong.

"Sure, Sherlock. When your done, we talk," John states, exiting the bathroom with tears forming in his eyes.

John knew Sherlock. He knew he loved him without question and he knew he'd die for him if he had to but he also knew that Sherlock wasn't thinking about him. John knew that as much as Sherlock cared about John, he wasn't thinking. So there had to be something else. Some actual reason to make Sherlock feel like he deserved to die and John was going to figure it out.

The bathroom door opening pulls John from his thoughts. He sees Sherlock stumbling out of the doorway. He looks as though he is ready to fall over. "Sherlock, you need help?"

"No." Answered Sherlock too quickly with a shaky voice. His head was pounding. He had stood too suddenly from the bathroom floor and as pain lanced through the back of his skull he staggered, throwing out a hand to prevent him from falling and found John suddenly by his side to stop him.

"Easy there. I've got you." John steadied him as Sherlock clung to him briefly, but tightly. Gripping his t-shirt in the darkness and feeling John's heart beating strongly through the thin material gave Sherlock the reassurance he needed for the moment. Sherlock broke contact finally having his breathing more under control, his headache eased into a dull hum in the back of his head. Sherlock pushed away from John, irrationally embarrassed and guilty.

John let him go, watching him worriedly and then Sherlock retreated to the bathroom once more. Sherlock splashed water on his face, revealing in the cold bite of the liquid chilling his skin. He could barely make out his reflection in the blackness of the bathroom but he was sure his eyes were haunted and misty. He was sure he looked a mess and he even tried to straighten out his hair a little bit because he was also sure that John was waiting for him on the other side of the door. Waiting for an explanation. Sherlock sighed to himself somewhat dreading this coming confrontation. He would have given a lot to avoid trying to explain this. He couldn't quite explain it to himself. He just needed it. He opened the door slowly and made his way to sit on the chair across from the one John was currently on. He stretched out his long legs and lean up heavily against the back of the chair. Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't breathe. He's scared, scared to talk about this. He just wants it to be over.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John asked anxiously, moving quickly to Sherlock's side.

"I just want it to end," came the reply. John put his hand on Sherlock's face and turned his head towards him.

"What do you want to end, Sherlock?"

"Everything."

John backed away from Sherlock in horror. Was he really so depressed that he wanted to end it all?

"You don't mean that," he said weakly. Sherlock paid no attention and stared off ahead of him. "Sherlock, stop it. You're scaring me." Sherlock didn't seem to hear him at all, it was like he was in a trance. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Sherlock!" John yells, and finally Sherlock looks at him and his breathing slows down.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, just…"

"You are not doing this. You do not get to do this."

Sherlock sighed. He sounded so tired, so spent. And John realized that this wasn't some lame ass pity party or hot-headed decision on Sherlock's part. This was Sherlock, totally at the end of his endurance. At the end of his hope. And Sherlock had once been the most hopeful person John had known.

Finally, Sherlock shook his head. "John, you know this is for the best." John couldn't speak around the tightening of his throat. He just shook his head. He could see from the corner of his eye, Sherlock turn to look at him. "You need to let me do this. I won't ask you to do it, but it has to be done." John just closed his eyes, dropped his head and tried to breathe. Sherlock's hand landed on his shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. "Just, come back in a couple of hours."

"Sherlock, shut up." And Sherlock's hand dropped from his shoulder. John opened his eyes. Still couldn't look at his friend. "Just shut the hell up. This is not going to happen. Not tonight, not ever."

Sherlock, again with the sighing. "John, that's not your choice to make."

"Yeah. Actually, it is my choice." He finally looked at Sherlock. "And I'll tell you why. I'll skip all the usual for now. You know, you're my best friend, one of the only persons on this earth that I really care about, and the only one who cares about me. Whatever. Boring stuff, right? I don't care what you say. I'm not letting you do this."  
Sherlock looked up to the ceiling. "I know. I don't want you here when I do it. I'm not trying to hurt you, John…"

"Bullshit." Sherlock's eyes snapped to his friends. John felt the fury return. "Bullshit. You are trying to hurt me. You're humiliated and angry and ashamed. You don't know how to deal with whatever emotional shit you've got going in that freaky head of yours, so you're just gonna check out. Super-smart Sherlock fucking giving up? Well, I call bullshit on that, Sherlock. You don't do this, you don't end it all, because of me or anyone."

Even if he had to torture Sherlock to get it. Time to bring in the big guns, honesty. "So you didn't think about how I would feel? Loosing you?" Sherlock stopped moving, his back rigid. John took a breath, prepared to be cruel. "How dare you! You selfish bastard."

"Look me in the eye, John and tell me that I would ever do anything to hurt you. That I would purposefully try to destroy you? This isn't about that you!"

"Exactly! It isn't about me! It's about you being selfish! Fucking tell me, Sherlock! What the fuck is going on?" John knew he was close and he also knew that he couldn't back down. Apologize later, he needed Sherlock back now.

Sherlock broke their eye contact. "It's okay, John."

"God, Sherlock, is it not okay." John knelt on the ground between their beds, his eyes wet. "It's not okay. Cause apparently you are doing even more fucked up things than I realized!" John fully recognizes his answer makes little sense, but it doesn't matter. Why Sherlock isn't laughing and telling John it's some ridiculous misunderstanding and he's perfectly well-adjusted. Except for the whole pyschopath thing, but that was the Sherlock he knew. The one he loved.

"John." And wow, Sherlock is being remarkably calm. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it fucking matters, Sherlock!" John, on the other hand, can't seem to stop yelling. "It matters if you tried to kill yourself!"

Sherlock was still looking away. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to talk to me!"

"I know, I know. I just, I don't know how to do this. I don't do this." Sherlock made a wide gesture, desperate now to get John to understand.

John squinted. "You don't … do this?"

Sherlock sighed. "Talking. Bonding, what the fuck ever we're doing right now. That's what I don't do. I can't." 

"I know," John stated and then almost too quietly for Sherlock to hear he whispered, "I'm not losing you."

So there it was. John's real terror and quite a revelation to Sherlock. John was scared of losing him? Sherlock wants out...John knows that. But he's not going to let that happen.

"So if it's my time, I'd rather end it now."

"Sherlock?"

"No, I'm done, John. I don't want to keep fighting anymore. So just leave it be. Let me go in peace."

John rubbed his eyes. He tried to sort through his fear and anger and confusion to find the words that would get through to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I'm going to lay it out for you, okay? As clearly as I can. And then, if you still want to do this fucked up thing, well, we'll deal with this together."

"What? No, John, you're not—"

John let out an exasperated breath, rolling his eyes. "Seeing you lying there on the bed, thinking you were already dead. Before- Before I could do anything. That killed me. And that will stay with me forever, Sherlock. I can see you right now-right on the verge of losing your shit. I've got you, Sherlock. You and me, we'll be okay. You and me were going to get through whatever nightmares life throw at us, because, well, because we were. And we have to." He turned to look at Sherlock, rested a hand on his knee. "We'll get through this, Sherlock, ok? Enough is enough. You need to knock this shit off right now. This whole hopeless-I'm-giving up crap. Its gone to far. It's annoying, alright? I'm sick your mopey Hemingway bullshit. Yeah. Times are bad. It's real bad sometimes. I get that. But you know what? It's about time you pulled your head out of your ass and get over it. We don't give up. You don't give up. Because that's not what Sherlock Holmes does. We do what we have to and shut up about it. I'm not going to sit around while you try to fucking off yourself. I care Sherlock. And if you really feel that i don't then you might as well start digging your grave, because i don't know what else I can do." He stormed away, face bright red and eyes full of anger.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called out. "John, please."

"I've had enough. You want to kill yourself, fine. Just leave me the fuck out of it," John spat, opening the door and slamming it behind him.

Sherlock flinched at the sound, sighing once more in regret.

The crippling depressive emotions swarmed their way back into Sherlock's heart and soul. And he knew he needed the knife again, like he had a few times before. John was mad at him. He hated him. He pretty much told Sherlock to go kill himself. He hated this feeling, but in a small demented sort of way, he encouraged it. That way, if John was still a little irate about things, he might possibly become distant, and that would make the parting so much easier. He hated to think that way but sooner or later he was going to cause John more heartache. Might as well speed up the process. Though Sherlock knew that there was the possibility John would follow him. It was something they'd never discussed, one of many things they hadn't needed to; it was a simple, unspoken fact. Where Sherlock went, John eventually followed, and vice versa. That's probably why Sherlock isn't afraid there in what he knows will be final moments. Of course, there's a split, millisecond of panic when he'd realized once and for all, this was it, but then John's image had presented itself before his fading vision, and all fear was gone. John may not have been physically with him, and Sherlock knew that that was the part that would torture John the most, but they belonged so totally to each other - were so much one being - that they were never really separated, and that had comforted Sherlock.

I have to end this now. John is furious and maybe he will be glad to be rid of me..his baggage. It ends now.

Storming into the the all too familiar bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it. Sherlock turns and ends up staring straight into the person he has become. A freak. He rips the bandage from his arm, thinking how happy he is that it is not foreign to John that he wears long sleeves all the time. Sleeves pulled up, poorly tended cuts on his wrist showing, dark bags under his eyes..He stands and stares for a minute..Maybe five. Time is irrelevant to Sherlock now. He knows it will all be over soon anyway.

Pounding was all he could hear. Sadness and anger was all he could feel. Cutting was all he could think about. It was a part of his mind, his body, his soul..It was an addiction. It had pulled him in so deep, he was addicted like it was fucking heroin. Immense throbbing pulsed and rang throughout his ear cavities, reminding him of the constant battle he had with himself. Raging inside him. He was tired. And now it was time to get it over with.

He had to breathe but his whole body ached, he hadn't been this bad in awhile and he felt scared. Helpless. Only he could make himself feel like this; Moriarty was nothng compared to himself. He was his greatest enemy. Nobody can save him from himself. He stood up, still shaking and looked up at the corner. There it was. A blade. He was trying to breathe the best he could, but his breaths came out in short gasps. He was starting to feel faint and had pins and needles in his finger and toes. His sight was starting to blur, but he finally reached for the blade. He flopped on the floor and slashed it deep into his skin, gradually a thin red line of blood appeared. He cut again. And again. He couldn't stop. It hurts. Really hurts. But he can barely feel it. Inside he is happy. He knows this is what's right and what needs to happens. It was like something had posessed him. Blood started to run down his arm and he thought he was going to pass out. His arm was on fire and each cut was deeper than the last.

In the end there were 24 cuts all up his right arm. He barely is able to make the knife steady as he places it against his left arm and drags it downward. Sherlock is shaking all over. He felt hot all over, and the room began to tilt but Sherlock pays it no mind, he looks at himself in the mirror and smiles one last time at reflection out of sheer stupidity.  
He was doing his best to be quiet, but he couldn't find bandages and when he finally did he heard the front door open. He froze and held his breath. He goes to slip the knife into his pocket, but the knife suddenly drops to the floor and his vision goes blurry.

He knew he was done for…

He grips the sink tighter as he feels his knees weaken beneath him, he sways back and forth and his head clashes with the mirror

"John!" He tries to yell.

But then everything goes black.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
John was on his second round walking around the block. John didn't mean those things he had said to Sherlock. But he was worried. And scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life. He has to get back to Sherlock. To apologize and make things right. He speeds up and pretty much runs the rest of the way to their flat. Once he is there he sighs before he open the door. The front room is empty. The bathroom door closed.

Oh god.  
He ran for the door, trying the handle. "Sherlock?" he called frantically, eyes widening when the door wouldn't open. Sherlock had locked the door, then.

"Sherlock, answer me!" he demanded, trying to keep calm. He had to get the door open. That was the first thing he needed to do. Sherlock, don't do this to me. Please don't do this. Oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod...

He should've known. He should have known Sherlock would do this when he was gone. FUCK!

"Sherlock!" John shouted, pulling at the handle. "Open the door, or I swear to god I'll knock it down again if I have to!"

"Oh god," John whimpered, refusing to give into the hysterical sob that was threatening to overwhelm him. "Don't do this Sherlock don't do this-"

"Sherlock?!" John called out to his friendthrough the closed door yet again.

John stepped back and threw his body into. Memories of this morning hit him like a ton of bricks. With a crack, the crappy door burst open. And there it was. His best friend laying on the cold tile floor, blood surrounding the lower half of his body, still leaking from his wrist. John has never in his life reacted as fast as he did in this moment.

As John reached Sherlock's side, realisation struck him like a sledge hammer. There was the knife, laying beside Sherlock. Also Sherlock was bleeding profusely from a head wound. Probably a result from the crack in the mirror.

"Sherlock! Oh god! Sherlock!" John exclaimed in horror at the sight before him, his first thought was that Sherlock was dead, that he'd screwed up so badly, not seen how bad what was happening to his friend, and now Sherlock had killed himself. But then Sherlock's chest rose, he was still alive.

Oh thank god. John thought as he scrambled down onto his hands and knees beside Sherlock, trying to asess his condition, ignoring the emotions and pain that threatened to drown him.

"Sherlock.. Sherlock?" John yelled, screamed, slapping him harshly across the face. "Sherlock!!" It was a moan.. a desperate cry.. a plea.. whether to heaven or to hell it didn't matter.  
John's eyes fall to Sherlock's left wrist and there, right there, is a large line, cut diagonally from the bottom of Sherlock's hand to a spot several inches up his forearm. It's straight and neat and practically fucking surgical in it's preciseness.

John grabs the towels from their hanging spot and wraps them around Sherlock's bloody wrist. John lets out a breath.

Once he's sure that the blood flow has slowed, John fishes his cellphone out of his pocket, and dials 999.

"Hello, how may I help you?" An emergency services operator answers the phone.

John can't believe the words coming out of his mouth as he says. "My friend slit his wrists. I found him in the bathroom ...There's a lot of blood."

In a calm tone, the woman on the other end of the phone asks. "Does he have a pulse?"

"Yeah, but it's really slow and weak." John tells her, turning around so that he can see Sherlock.

"Okay sir. I'm going to send an ambulance. What's your address?"  
John pauses for a moment, almost forgetting, only able to focus on Sherlock, then answers. "221B Baker Street."

"Okay. The ambulance will be there soon." John hangs up the phone as soon as the words leave her mouth, and turns back to his friend. He hates how still Sherlock is.  
Barely controlling his panic at seeing Sherlock in such a state. "Why did you do this Sherlock?"

John stays sitting right there, keeping pressure on both his arms, whilst talking mindlessly to Sherlock, anything he can think of to avoid the reality, Sherlock tried to kill himself, and if John hadn't gotten back when he did, Sherlock might have died, he still could.

Oh god, Sherlock. What did you do? I should have been here! I'm so sorry Sherlock. Please don't die.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Please let me know what you thought!


End file.
